Origins of Frost
by TheNovelust
Summary: A look into just what shaped Jack Frost into the King of Winter.


The snow falls in hushed whispers, blanketing the world in comforting emptiness. All sounds in the night are muffled by its cold embrace. The boy's boots make a soft crunching sound with each frenzied step. He seems for all the world to be an ordinary boy, save for the fact his skin is so pale it seems almost translucent, like a moonbeam, and his hair, feathery and fine as cirrus, is the same color as the freshly fallen snow.

The boy ducks into an alleyway, peeking around the corner for his pursuers. The untainted snow shows no sign of anyone following him, but he knows better. Thankfully praising the snow, he wonders about its sudden appearance. When the pursuers appeared and the fear sank into the core of his heart, the sudden flurry of snow began: harsh, cold, frantic, and wild. The weather had been clear before, the sky changing as if on some capricious whim.

A small shadow moves somewhere nearby, startling him from his hiding spot and driving him to the edge of the town. Looking over his shoulder, he sees the shadow coming closer. Eyelids fluttering close as he turns forward once again, he suddenly trips over his own feet, sending himself tumbling forward. He lands with a thud and a yelp, hitting the hard, icy ground.

Except it's not ground. He's managed to land atop a frozen lake. He attempts to franticly scramble to his feet, but the ice is slippery and sends him reeling downwards once again. Turning towards the ground, now sliding away as momentum carries him forward, he sees no one, but that does nothing to quell the fear in his heart. The snowy flurry and winter wind pick up their vicious howls. A large tree with dropping, heavy branches grows on the bank of the lake. One such branch is almost close enough for him to grasp, if he could only stand.

He forces the fear away, cautiously rising to his feet, arms outspread to help his balance, and, curiously, the wind and the snow die down. The end of the branch hangs down in a crook, so close… So close. His fingers are fully outstretched, yet still he cannot reach it. Flinging himself upwards with a small leap, he manages to catch the crook end of the branch, but it snaps, sending him tumbling back onto the frozen lake.

The piece that has torn away is rather larger, longer than he is tall, although not very thick and fits perfectly into his hand as a sort of walking stick or staff. The shadow approaches, and the strange calm he felt from holding the staff disappears, replaced with a new kind of fear. The weather, however, does not change. He backs away from the shadow slowly, hoping not to slip on the slick ice. Unsure of what else to do, he taps the shadow with his stick, doubting it will have any effect.

But it does.

The shadow freezes, tiny icicles running along it in the pattern of snowflakes almost like thin, blue veins. Tilting his head curiously, the boy taps it again with his staff, surprised to see the shadow shatter right before his very eyes. The fear leaves him completely with the danger gone and he lets his laughter echo: the sound on jingle bells ringing, carefree and light.

With a whoop of excitement, he runs across the ice, using his staff to steady him so that he glides easily. How wonderful, how joyous, how simply perfect this all is!

Then, he remembers…

He remembers the tall, dark men made completely of shadows and fears. He remembers the darkness engulfing his parents and taking them away in a implosion of blackness. He remembers being left alone and frightened. He remembers somehow managing to escape the house and the dreadful things lurking within.

He remembers.

The memories hit him at the height of his wonderful mood, leaving him with the hollowing realization that everything is _not_ perfect. He must find his parents.

Yes. Parents. The healing touch of a mother's hand upon a fevered forehead. The soothing comfort of a father's authoritative presence. The gentle embrace of a family.

He must find these things once again.

Where would the shadows take his parents? The boy could not imagine what such darkness would want with the goodness of parents. Perhaps it wished for his mother to read it a bedtime story, or have his father teach it to build a birdhouse.

No, that couldn't be right. This darkness was different, hiding something sinister. It would not take his parents for such reasons.

Panic wells up inside his chest once more as he reaches the opposite bank of the lake. He must find his parents. He must find them before it is too late.

Looking at his sleeves and shoulders, he notices some flakes have landed upon him. He attempts to shake them off, but they will not fall. It is almost as if they are a part of him now. He thinks nothing of it however.

Despite the bitter cold, he wears only a pair of pants and a pull-over. The cold has never affected him in the ways it seems to affect others. He quite likes it, in fact.

Eyes wide and optimistic, he sets off to the north, uncertain why but hopeful that this direction will yield some clue on the location of his parents.


End file.
